


Hiraeth

by AtroposCorvus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, Melancholy, Tragedy, more tags to be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-10-27 09:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtroposCorvus/pseuds/AtroposCorvus
Summary: Harlow wishes for nothing more than meaning to her life. With the new religion pushing forth, destroying those left to believe in the Old Ones, she sees the meaning slip more and more. With her sisters gone, her mother within the black void and her father turned, she seeks out the forest, hoping to find rest there and join her mother within the void. However, the forest has never belonged to humans. It has always been for the dead, for the wolves in human skin. As much as they are hungry for the living, Harlow might find her hunger for meaning stilled among them.





	1. Of Witches And Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I have posted here. Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. As of now I have no Beta-Reader, so any mistakes made are mine.  
Nonetheless, I hope you will still come to enjoy the story.

Some say that she was already cast out as a child. Others say she was cast out when she turned into a woman, a spark in her chest and embers on her fingertips. They said she swallowed coals and spit out flames to spite them in the name of the witches. In fact, she has never been anything else than a believer, like her mother used to be before they drowned her in the name of the Eternal Light. They did not touch Harlow afterwards, after the storm had torn down their church. They think she still carries the fury of the Old Ones with her. Sometimes Harlow thinks they are right to fear her. They have forsaken the Old Ones and she alone carries the belief in their village now. She holds power, sometimes at least. It shows in the way people look at her, wary, but careful.

Still they throw their matches at her, hoping she would catch fire, hoping they could cleanse her in their false belief of faith.

"Bitch." They scream.

"Witch." They snarl.

Harlow thinks she might be both. She has allowed them to use her, has spit at them with words that burn. She knows they have condemned her even before she left her mother's womb to stumble from one cage to another. Even as a child, when the Eternal Light first took hold, they asked things of her in sweet voices. Asked if she were to be like her mother. They turned their backs to the old gods and let her mother rot for clinging to her belief. She should hate them, all of them. Maybe she does, but even a woman dubbed a witch can only do such much when facing a village ready to burn her. They fear her. It is what keeps her alive as of now, if only barely. There is no magic to her blood. She is not one to bargain with the fair folk, she is no true child of nature. She knows the plants and the trees, but the forest has never been theirs. It belongs to the dead. The wolves in human skin.

Yet, she has heard tales that the forest can be kind. At least, if it is a quick death that you seek. The dead are hungry. They will tear you apart if given the chance. No man has ever returned from the forest, no man dares to stray from the roads through them. There are rules they keep. The rules of the dead are followed closely, as the rules of the living decay. Harlow finds no joy in living. Her father has joined the Eternal Light, her sisters will burn, he says. The brunette assumes, that if she is to die, she will do so on her own terms. With the Old Ones watching and passing their judgment.

Late at night, with the moon high above her, she leaves for the forest. The cold crawls up her skin, seeps into her bones. Maybe she will freeze to death before they find her. She hopes it. The people say the venom burns you from the inside out with how vile it is. She is not curious to find out how it might feel. Maybe they will snap her neck should they find her earlier. Maybe the forest will take her first. Harlow prays one last time, hoping the Old Ones will understand. She has not been strong enough, with no one left, she felt lonely. Within the void she might be able to at least join them for eternity.

Her limbs grow heavy. Her lips turn blue. Her breath rattles in her chest, cold and aching. Her skin stretches over her bones. She feels uncomfortable. She thinks dying must be. It is a curious thing, to feel your life force weaken like a flame struggling against a storm. She herself knows it is futile, but her spirit remains strong. Like it has not caught up yet. It does not know that she wants to leave this earthly shell behind to decay on the forest floor. She imagines it, the flowers growing from her ribcage, the moss and bark covering her face. More witch than she has ever been human, even if only in her departure.

She craves her ending, she realizes. Without meaning, what need is there for her to fight. Let the wolves have her. She will serve them well. A wolf in human skin does find her. Harlow’s lips twitch into a smile, cracking open from the cold. Her own blood feels scalding against her skin. It will end. It will all finally end.

Only that it does not end there. She wakes beneath a silk blanket, her hand tracing the spotless skin on her neck. She is sure that she should have died, but there is no wound on her neck. She does not feel cold anymore. It is strange and for a moment she feels angry that she has been denied release. Even in a life where she never asked for much she is refused her only request. Harlow assumes that is simply another twist of fate to keep her caged.

The woman finds herself staring back at herself from the mirror hanging on the other side of the room. She looks misplaced within such an expensive room. Her black hair is tangled, clothes hanging from her overly thin frame like rags. She does not belong here, yet she is here for some reason. The door slides open, quiet steps filling the room until she meets the eyes of a maid. The woman seems young, though old age shines in her eyes. Harlow asks herself if she too is a wolf hidden within human skin.

“Since you are awake, the mistress wishes to see you.” The maid sounds stern, not terrified of the one she calls mistress. Harlow swallows nervously, but still slips out of bed. She does not dare argue with the wolves. She realizes that she is scared of death, facing them so suddenly.

The pristine walls of this foreign place are filled with them, snapping and snarling. They must be hungry for fresh blood. She does not dare to look them in the eye. They must smell her fear. She refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing it upon her face. Still, her body shivers as their gazes rake over her. Harlow asks herself if the one they call mistress will be different, if her gaze will remain hungry yet kind. At least she hopes so, prays for someone to see behind the human shell. It gets tiring after all these years, to have her own soul confined. She feels her skin stretched across her bones and so often does it feel wrong. It is not her, maybe not even this body belongs to her.

The mistress sits atop an iron throne. The room itself is cold. Heavy curtains keep the fading sunlight out, basking the entire room in a deep shade of red. She thinks it fitting, albeit a little cliche. The woman is stretched over the satin of her seat, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. Ashen hair spills over exposed shoulders, clinging to the skin. Harlow swallows nervously. She does not dare stare, not with the gaggle of women almost sprawled out before their mistress. They giggle and grin, eyes hidden behind curtains of long hair. The woman knows they must be speaking about her, craving to tear her throat out to have a feast. The cold of the room creeps up, up, up her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Pale silver eyes turn towards her, studying her. There is some sort of odd curiosity reflected within them. That gaze slowly turns towards the maid. The glass of wine is brought to her mouth, some of it spilling over ashen lips. The mistress lazily wipes at the droplets, leaving a smear of red behind.

“You did well to bring her to me, Delphine. You may leave now.” The words have a pleasant ring, as sweet as honey, though there is a rougher note to them as well.

The maid, Delphine, nods and leaves after a curt bow. Harlow is left with the mistress and the dozens of women mingling with her. The eyes are back on her as she nervously fiddles with the hem of her shirt. Languidly, the mistress slips off her throne, her long dress dragging across the floor as she steps closer on naked feet. Her wineglass is easily discarded as she goes, one of the women eagerly snatching it before it can fall. A pale hand reaches forward, icy fingers ghosting over Harlow’s cheek. They slip under her chin, tilt her face up, to the sides. The mistress keeps studying her, humming to herself once or twice.

Harlow feels her heart beat against its confines. Her breathing grows shallow. Her eyes are squeezed shut. She stands before a true wolf, someone who could tear her throat out if they so desired. Instead, the hand on her face remains gentle, yet firm. She is not dying today and the brunette does not know what to think.

“Look at me, lamb.” Again that voice with its pleasant ring.

Harlow dares to meet the mistress’ gaze. It is hypnotizing and she feels herself getting lost in the silvery pools. Fingernails trace her throat, leaving goosebumps in their path. The mistress swallows, eyes dilating. Her hands wander to the human’s shoulders, gripping her tightly as she lowers her face to the crook of her neck. Something sharp grazes Harlow’s skin and she startles. Though, she cannot escape now. She is still unsure if she even wants to. Maybe there is a meaning to her demise. A cool tongue swipes over the exposed spot, teeth breaking the skin shortly after. Harlow hisses at the pleasant sting it brings. Her short fingernails dig into the mistress’ forearm as she tries to keep herself from floating away. The notion of having someone drink her blood directly from its source is oddly satisfying.

She succumbs fully as that tongue laps at the wound. Her head lolls to the side, granting the other woman more access to what she desires so deeply.

Her thoughts spiral deeper and deeper with every second that passes until there is nothing, but the sensation. She goes slack in the other woman’s arms, a shaky breath freeing itself from her throat. She wants more, always more, but the mistress stops just shortly before this intoxicating feeling can rob her of all senses. The pressure on her throat vanishes, a finger tracing the punctures there. Harlow’s eyes immediately focus on the lips of the other woman. They are a lovely shade of red and for a moment she questions how it might feel to taste her own blood upon them. The brunette sways a little, her knees weak, her body relaxed.

“So obedient. You might become my new favorite taste.” The mistress licks her lips, pupils blown wide. She appears just as affected as Harlow herself, though it does not show as much. Still, the other woman draws back from her, distancing herself.

The brunette wants more, still does not want it to end. She can endure until her body gives out, only for the sensation to last a while longer. The woman staggers forward, her legs buckling underneath her own weight before she can even get close to the mistress. She is caught still, cold hands steadying her by the shoulder. Once more her face is twisted to the side as the other woman examines her throat.

“Take her to Delphine. Have her rest and properly bandaged. When she comes to herself again, dress her properly, then have her send to me.” That voice takes on a commanding tone.

Several pairs of hands steady her now, only some of them cold to the touch. Harlow feels herself being lead out of the room, through the winding halls of the mansion as the other women chatter on about how well the mistress will take care of her now. She barely notices when she is back in the room she awoke. The loose garment is slipped over her head, replaced by something a little more fitting. Her throat is bandaged by gentle hands. Though, no matter how gently and carefully she is put to rest, her mind remains restless even in her sleep. The sensations of that day have latched onto her, begging her to chase that high again. 


	2. The Price Of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true panic, wariness settles in come next morning. The thin sheets pooling around her sweat covered body. The light is flooding her room, warm against her already flaming skin. The remnants of her dream cling to her, yet its contents remain lost to her. She only remembers moss, the smell of wet dirt. It clings to her like a phantom, weights her down with something. Her throat closes up even more as she realizes that she is trapped here, in a mansion full of wolves. She is caged with people that feed from the living. Here, the Old Ones surely cannot protect her and she thinks of bolting from the room. She wants to run as far and as long as her legs can carry her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter on the same day, because I have no life and am impatient af

The true panic, wariness settles in come next morning. The thin sheets pool around her sweat covered body. The light floods her room, warm against her already flaming skin. The remnants of her dream cling to her, yet its contents remain lost to her. She only remembers moss, the smell of wet dirt. It clings to her like a phantom, weights her down with something. Her throat closes up even more as she realizes that she is trapped here, in a mansion full of wolves. She is caged with people that feed from the living. Here, the Old Ones surely cannot protect her and she thinks of bolting from the room. She wants to run as far and as long as her legs can carry her. The thought dies the moment Delphine enters the room. The maid watches Harlow with that kind of focus that makes her squirm with uneasiness.

“You may leave, after the mistress has made the arrangements, but running from the mansion now is strictly forbidden. Some of the maidens underestimate their wounds and faint upon leaving the mansion.”, the handmaiden’s eyes wander to the bandages still wrapped around Harlow’s neck.

She thinks the Delphine must have often witnessed humans trying to escape the wolves. Harlow cannot fathom why the woman stays, why any of the other women not claimed by the night would stay. They are human, not festering like corpses from the inside out. Their hearts beat, yet none of them are terrified and it irks her. She is scared, her pulse a feeble little thing fluttering in her veins. She is scared of what punishment running from them might bring, though the notion of staying terrifies her more. Noticing that Delphine is waiting for her reaction, Harlow merely nods dumbly.

Wordlessly, the maid begins to lead her through the mansion. The pair walks past the throne room, deeper into the belly of the house until they reach a heavy oak door. The woman knocks once. The door opens. Mistress and servant speak in hushed tones before Delphine bows and takes her leave. Cool fingers wrap around Harlow’s thin wrist. She is pulled into the room before she can protest.

Relics and bookshelves fill three of the walls. Somewhere in between she thinks she might spot a desk, but it it is difficult to tell with all the notes strewn around. The only place free of anything appears to be the row of enormous windows with dark, stained glass opposite of the door. Sunlight is leaking in, but it is painted by dark reds and violets. The queen sized bed is surrounded by books and manuscripts. The red satin sheets are barely visible underneath it all. Then again, Harlow assumes that the mistress never sleeps all too much. Do the wolves sleep at all?

The other woman is still wearing the same garments as she did yesterday. The mistress’ free hand slips upwards to graze the bandage. Harlow shivers, from fear or leftover pleasure, she does not know.

“The wound marks you. It would be foolish to leave. You would be met with nothing but unkindness.” The word sounds cold to a degree. A certain possessiveness swings within them as well, as if Harlow is not her own person anymore.

It makes her stomach churn with repressed anger. Still, she does not manage to speak. Instead she finds herself overwhelmed, always overwhelmed by standing in front of such a pristine creature. Warning bells flare to life within her mind. They have been wrong, all of them. There are no wolves, only those living and the dead who feed from them, like they are kettle. She presses her back against the door. The handle painfully digs into her side. Harlow does not care. If she did not die in the forest, the Old Ones must have plans for her, a greater meaning to her existence. She knows that if she stays, she will surely die.

The silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and thick. The mistress merely watches her. It is unsettling to be under such scrutiny. An answer is expected of her, but there is none that she can give. The fear she experiences is old, developed through stories upon stories in her childhood. The dead will feast on you. They will turn you into a child of the night as well. They will steal you away and never let you return. She was terrified as a child and she is terrified now when the stories push back to the surface.

The mistress does not stop her when Harlow stumbles out of the room on shaky legs. Her breathing is shallow. She feels trapped. She will only be allowed to leave if the mistress sees it fit. By all means she is a prisoner and the only reprieve she finds is the light of the rising sun fighting its way into the mansion through thick curtains. Where a new day breathes life into her, it seems to steal the life away from the mansion itself.

She quickens her pace. If she were to escape now, they would not be able to follow her. They cannot step into the light, for it will surely burn them.

Harlow finds her way through the winding hallways, hiding behind corners now and then when the unfamiliar noises startle her. She does make it to the outside eventually. The forest stretches out before her. It is vast, towering over her as she possibly stumbles from one cage to yet another.

The sun guides her. She follows it through the forest, knowing the light will protect her from the creatures that lurk in the dark. Hours upon hours she walks, only spotting another sign of life when the sun has begun its descent once more. The village in the clearing sticks out like a sore thumb. It does not belong here, with its fence made of wooden spikes. Harlow knows, the forest might belong to the dead, but it is not one to attack the living. Her stomach clenches and she realizes that she has not eaten anything since she ran from home. She will have to be dependent on the goodwill of these villagers. She will have to hope and pray that they will not see her as a threat to their believes.

Harlow stumbles through the small gate at the front, shoulders heaving with each breath she takes. Those spit out by the forest are never to be trusted, she knows from the way the villagers eye her. They are suspicious of her intentions, almost expecting her to go on a rampage if they even dare to do so much as blink. They surround her, sneering. They have not thrown matches at her yet. Harlow thinks it an improvement from home. The mayor steps in front of her. He is a young man, the sigil of the Eternal Light pinned to his heavy coat. He looks like a boy in his father's clothes. Still, the people will follow his judgment. She will have to convince him, if she ever is to find safety within this part of the forest.

“What has lead to you straying into our part of the forest, with such strange bandages nonetheless?”, the mayor’s voice is gruff, his gaze sharp.

Harlow swallows, thinks about how far honesty has brought her home and then she lies. “Raiders have attacked my village. They almost tore through my throat. It is a rather gruesome sight and I would prefer to spare the children.”

She holds her breath as the mayor regards her. “You may stay for now.”, he mutters, turning towards the villagers. “Anja, you are to watch her. Make certain this stranger does not stray.”

A thin woman steps forward, her clothes slightly too big for her small frame. She bows, dirty blond hair covering hazel eyes.

“Yes, of course.”, even her voice is meek, submissive. Harlow sees herself in the woman. It makes her sick.

Still, she allows the other woman to pull her aside. The villagers still stare at them, at Harlow. She hopes that with time they might begin to tolerate her. It is all she asks for as of now. She cannot go home and the forest is for the dead. She does not belong here, a soul trapped within the skin stretched over ancient bones. It all feels so wrong, but it is still her and she might grow to tolerate it among those people.

Anja leads her to a house a little off from the rest. It is smaller, a little shabbier. The door opens and dust greets them. Harlow tries her best not to cough. Though, the irony of the situation is not lost on her. An old, forgotten home is given to her. They must hope they can forget her just like that.

“Old Edith used to live here. Before the Eternal Light took over.” The blonde's eyes are cast to the ground. She seems fearful to speak about it.

Harlow thinks Edith might have been like her mother, a woman speaking to the old ones, a woman who knows the forest. They call them witches now. They kill them for their disbelief in the light.

“I will take the bedroom down here, there should be another just up the stairs.” With that Anja disappears.

Harlow thinks she must scare her. She is a stranger after all. She rubs the back of her neck, sighs and makes her way upstairs. The bedroom is no different than the room she found herself in upon entering this house. The drapes on the windows are old, riddled with holes. She fears the dust on the bed might choke her if she is not careful. This house is empty, devoid of life. Restoring it will give her something to focus on besides the throbbing wound on her neck. She might even be able to find herself along the way. She might find the reason why the Old Ones did not let her die within the forest.

First she begins to clean. Harlow is thankful for the nearby stream. She can escape the villager’s judgment just a little longer this way. The drapes and blankets are washed and despite being in a poor state, they will do until Harlow can find ways to mend them. Anja seems to stay away from her. On occasion she can feel the other woman’s eyes on her, observing. She does not comment on it. There is no reason for it. Anja will watch her and if Harlow ignores her long enough, she might forget she is even there. She will always have to keep in mind to never reveal her neck, but with how much distance the blonde keeps from her, it will not be all too hard.

Dreams still haunt her sleep. She finds herself within the forest, unable to move. Something presses against her ribcage until she bows over in heaving coughs. Bloodied petals spill from her lips. They litter the ground and it looks hauntingly beautiful. She realizes too late that it is wolfs-bane that she is choking on. Her limbs feel heavy, her heart stutters and suddenly she jolts awake in her bed. Harlow feels cold all over. She does not know if her mind is messing with her or if this is supposed to be some sort of warning. Her dreams have never allowed her to dies before. She glances towards the window, notes the blackness of the night. She is too awake to go back to sleep. Harlow does not even know if she would go back to it, to the dream, if she could. Lately everything leaves her anxious or scared of what is to come her way.

To forget it, she tries to bring routine into her life at the village. As long as she keeps her mind occupied long enough, Harlow will not have to think about the dreams, the wolves or the people so ready to burn her alive. Inserting herself into the life of others is easy. She merely has to keep her head low and nod along. The villagers easily accept this version of her. Each day the entire village holds a shared meal. They pray, pay respects to a deity that presumably protects them. It can be grating sometimes, how devoted they are to something they do not seem to fully understand. Still, this routine is something she might get used to with enough time. Sometimes she joins the prayers, even though the words make bile rise in the back of her throat. They burned her mother and sisters to those prayers as their father watched. Sometimes Harlow thinks she should have been the first to burn. She never knew things, like her sisters, like her mother. The world would have been able to carry such a loss. A soul that does not know its purpose has no meaning to it. There would have been meaning to her own death maybe, where the deaths of her kin had been meaningless.

The dreams only get worse after she seems to settle in. She chokes on wolfs-bane more often now, until she is used to awaking with the pressure in her ribcage. She thinks that might be the end to them. The lilac petals stop spilling from her lips and she feels relief wash over her as nothing happens in the dreams that follow. It is a short reverie.

Red campions grow from her veins, root her to the ground until all she smells is the wet earth. Aspen trees begin to grow from her bones each night. Harlow does not wake with a certain pressure in her ribcage anymore, instead if feels like her being is too big for her body. Her skin is uncomfortably stretched across her bones. It feels restricting, suffocating.

She feels dead. Her thoughts often wander to the mark on her neck whenever the prayers of the villagers turn towards the wolves. They cling to the belief that it will protect them. They forget that the hunger of the dead is endless, all consuming. One day they will be overrun like everyone else. They should learn to fear the dark once more, maybe beg the moon to protect them instead. Still, the days pass and the wound on her neck never stops itching.

Anja has stopped hiding from her, but the silent staring is no better. Harlow is watched at any given moment now. It is after she speaks of the Old Ones once. The villagers have turned, not hateful, but more wary after that. She hears the word witch uttered a few times, though their eyes never stray to her. Instead they seem to watch Anja. The woman always shrinks back into herself when they do. Harlow thinks she might have been one of the few people left to speak with the Old Ones. The blonde certainly seems more at peace this close to the forest, than any of them ever could. The villagers must despise Anja, where Harlow envies her. To have a place for your soul to feel at ease, if only for a little. It must be divine. Though Anja is paying the price for it as well, half an outcast now. Sometimes she wishes to ask the woman if she has the dreams as well, if it runs in their bloodlines. The blonde always averts her eyes. She never replies and Harlow stops trying after a week. The new religion has made way for violence and fear. She sees it in the fire always burning within the village, sees it in the broken eyes of the woman watching her. However, most of all she sees it in the wariness of the young major. He is a boy, truly, with his soul running ragged as he repeats the words of passing priests. He does not know what all of it means and therefore his people will never know. It is a cycle, one she cannot break. None of them can.

The marks on her neck keep itching. They ache until she wants to tear off her skin.

One day, when she cannot bear the sensation anymore, Harlow rips off the bandages. She touches the sensitive skin, feels it pulse beneath her fingertips. It has healed and scared over. She assumes that it must still look visible, the bright pink scar tissue against her freckled skin. She swallows nervously, replays the night in her head. Why had she liked it back then, despite the prominent danger? Was the possibility of death making her delirious? Is something wrong with her? She might never know, for lack of answers or the fear of finding them in the first place.

When Harlow tries to hastily bandage her neck once more it is already too late. The front door is pushed open. Anja gasps, terrified and for a moment they both look lost on what to do. For a moment she thinks not all will be lost within this very moment, hopes that the other woman will hide this from the villagers like she hides her connection to the forest.

And then Anja screams.

Harlow now understands what the mistress meant when she let her go. She is marked. She belongs to the dead now rather than the living, even when there is still a heart beating in her chest.


	3. Witch Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if she escapes them, all others will know that she is beyond hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a third chapter, because I kinda forgot this was sitting in my files, ready to be released. Hope you enjoy.

Hands grasp her, pull her down until she cannot move. The villagers scream in outrage. One claimed by the dead dares to walk among them. The children cling to their mothers as Harlow is violently dragged from the hut. She is undressed right there, stripped bare before the fires burning within the middle of the village. They refuse to burn her. They have the time. She sees the hunger for violence in their beady eyes. First they brand her. To save her soul, they say. The red hot iron is pressed against the skin of her back. Harlow tries to swallow her screams, but the sound still tears itself from her throat, as her skin erupts into angry blisters. The villagers do not care, they see only the eternal light scorching a tainted being. Their symbol, a bleeding sun, will mark her for all to see. Even if she escapes them, all others will know that she is beyond hope.

After, they chop off her hair until there is nothing left of her ebony locks for them to throw in the fire. Harlow is dehumanized. She thinks they need it to wash their hands within the illusion of their innocence. There is no guilt to be felt if she is not human, but a monster instead. Her hands are yanked behind her back, rope wrapping around her slender wrists to bind her. They will prepare themselves for a proper hunt tonight and come morning light, they will chase and kill the devil that crept into their village.

They are foolish to think that she will die so easily. She survived the forest once. Harlow can survive the ones who fear it as well. Still, that night she dreams of red dahlias breaking through her rib cage, twisting around her neck until she grows limp.

They let her run first, watch her stumble and run through the dirt. Her feet are bloody after the first few steps. The hounds are released shortly after. She hears them, almost feels them snapping at her bloodied heels. Escaping seems impossible. They are always there, not far off her tracks. Harlow hides in ravines, covers herself in mud to mask her scent. She hopes it will be enough. Sometimes Harlow finds herself praying. The hunters do not find her within the first day, but the hounds do. They snap at her and she finds herself stumbling down a steep hill. Still, they follow, tearing at her skin. They fall and fall, disoriented once they stop. It gives her enough time to stagger to her feet. She refuses to die like this, hunted down like a filthy animal. The trees are tall, branches reaching towards the ones of others like hands desperately grasping at each other. She could try to climb them, try to find her way back without touching the ground for a while.

The forest has yet to see her as one of its own, but it still allows her to seek refugee within. The rough bark never dares to cut her skin and the birds do not dare to sing of her arrival. Her blood is spilled along the way. She cannot stop that, not now. It is possible that her wounds will heal throughout the days. If she is lucky, she reaches the mansion before they get infected. She tries to sleep as little as possible. Harlow fears being found, but she fears the dreams more. They leave an aftertaste she can never quite shake. She always dies in them, sometimes slower as one might think. She finds no peace in them, not anymore.

It takes her two more days to find her way back to the mansion. It is only by a stroke of luck. The building towers over her, casting long shadows. The hunters scream and take their aim, but they never pull the trigger when they see it. They let her go, terrified of what might happen if they kill her on such unholy ground. She almost cries out of relief. It is finally over. Upon reaching the door, she falls to her knees, hoping someone will hear the weak knocks echoing through the halls.

It is how Delphine finds her, naked and torn in a puddle of her own blood. The maid is careful as she lifts Harlow, carrying her back to the quarters they had readied for her all those weeks ago. The mistress appears shortly after, like a shark smelling blood in the water. She is denied entry. Harlow sees her blown pupils, the hunger that seems to tug at her soul. Delphine responds with righteous fury, sending her mistress away. The anger subsides and kind eyes are turned towards Harlow once more. Something is being said, but there is white noise in her ears and the harder she tries to listen, the louder it seems to become. The maid turns frantic in her movements, cleans her wounds and bandages them. The hurt is a dull throb and Harlow thinks this is possibly how dying feels like. You do not feel it, you just know.

Her throat closes up, tears pool from her eyes. It is the last days catching up with her, her near death sinking in. It tears at her soul, rips tiny pieces off and leaves her with it. The holes cannot be filled. She was naive to think death would hold a kinder meaning than life. It is not healthy to crave it, but it is not healthy to be one of the living either. Being neither is impossible and one thing or the other will always poison her. It seems fruitless to desire peace now. The only meaning to be found is within her existence, but the Old Ones have yet to answer that question. She is delirious, she knows, but it makes thinking so much easier. She does not fear failure, she does not fear her thoughts when they just spill over.

Death will steal from her, fear of it will make her regret what she has missed in life. Life, as much of a hassle it might be, will give her time to find reason. It is a calming thought to fall into the void to. Harlow thinks she might hear her mother and sisters in the vast blackness. They do not ask her to join them, not yet anyways. Later, they say, when she has found purpose in the forest and the night.

Her episodes of consciousness are short. It will be a sensation, a noise and then she slips back into the blackness. Someone must be taking care of her, or she would never be waking up. Her mind flickers to Delphine. The woman seems to know how to care for the living, even when mostly surrounded by the dead.

It is during one of those times that she notices an argument taking place before the door of her room.

“You frightened the girl and now you wish to be let in?!”

“She is mine! I have claimed her before all of them, it is my right-”

“She is her own first foremost! You did not claim anything, Thyra! Let her breathe, introduce yourself to her like a proper lady and we will see how she takes to you.”

There is a huff coming from the other side, then the noise of retreating steps. Delphine saunters into the room, leftover agitation in her eyes. The emotion softens upon seeing Harlow. She draws up a chair next to the bed and sits down. For a moment she merely watches, before a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

“Once you have fully recovered it might do you some good if you were to socialize with the other maidens in the mansion. They are quite curious about you.” The suggestion is soft, the words warm. Delphine must truly think that living here must be easier if Harlow actually participated in the activity of living.

Harlow is fearful of what might happen. Her mind provides her with the possibilities of being bled dry, of having her throat cut, her blood spilling into waiting cups. Life has made her fearful of such things. It must have. Or maybe it has been beaten into her, when death was and perhaps still is the only answer to her existence.

Still, she nods. Harlow accepts her fate within the halls of the dead. The living have cast her out long before, maybe there is meaning for her here. Maybe she will only find her very own demise. She is tired of having to guess, of not knowing who she is supposed to be.

The process of healing is a long one. The mark on her back still burns weeks later, with every breath and every movement. Moving has been difficult, close to impossible when her skin had not yet properly healed. Sometimes she hears others whispering before her door. Some wish to visit, to see the newest member of their coven, others are fearful if the church will burn them now as well. None of them ever enter. Delphine must be the one to send them away. Harlow appreciates the peace. Within this room she is allowed to pretend that her life has not fallen apart just yet.

But even then she cannot hide away forever. Her dreams are still filled with flowers, she till tastes dirt when she wakes. The mistress will sometimes request to be let in. Harlow always tenses at her voice, sends her away with trembling words. The visits stop after the fifth time of being denied entry. She assumes the other woman must become annoyed with her. She cannot say that she feels guilty. Her peace is her right. She is allowed to heal away from those who might see it as an opening. She does not like to think of it as hiding, even though it is. Delphine has called her out on it several times already. Harlow knows that with every day she waits, she will grow less likely to show for dinner with the others. She thinks back to her father, how he had been a cruel coward. Some of that cowardly blood must run through her. She despises it.

The next day, she finds herself pacing the room. Nervous energy thrums within her veins. She will leave this room, she has to really. Otherwise fear and doubt will dig their roots deeper into her mind until nothing of herself is left. Her hands rests on the door handle. She takes a deep breath. Opens the door. Nothing attacks her. She cannot feel her neck being torn open by certain death. The halls are empty. Snippets of conversation barely bounce off the high walls. It seems serene, more so than Harlow thought this place could ever be.

She follows the noises to the throne room. There she finds rows of tables set up, filled with food and drink. Human and vampire alike are seated by the tables. Some sit close to each other, engaged in conversation or feeding from their maidens. Harlow does not quite know where to take a seat. It seems full, almost stifling. Yet, there is a warmth of familiarity between each member. Unlike the villagers, the inhabitants of the mansion seem to thoroughly enjoy themselves without the need for outcasts. Maybe she will find her place among them, though she does not know how she will. She has sought death, yes, but never meant to find its embodiment or to find familiarity within it. She sought the void and had found nothing. Now she does not know what is still to be sought out afterwards. Maybe there is balance between death and life. Living means feeling too much, death might mean standing before her mother and having to tell her that she never fought like her sisters or the woman herself.

Harlow swallows nervously. She needs this. Even if it will turn out to be a mistake made in an almost desperate attempt to fit in somewhere.

She carefully sits down at a more calmer side of the room, the table mostly filled with woman still alive. They smile at her encouragingly, just as unsure as she herself. They regard Harlow with curious eyes. Questions must be burning the tips of their tongues, still they keep quiet. Harlow will have to take the first step. They do not want her to feel endangered.

Still, Harlow does not speak. What is there to say? She can merely try to show them that she does not think of them as a danger. The maidens are her lesser worry. They do not regard her with a sort of wild hunger like others, they do not lick their lips in the anticipation of a feast taking place any second now. Her gaze travels to the other tables, pale faces illuminated by the flickering candles. Strangely enough she finds only women staring back at her, all of them just as curious as the ones who have welcome her to their table. Harlow almost feels like a child that has seen only the scary shadows instead of the actual people. Has life truly scared her so much? Have the people made her wary of anyone who might seem kind enough to offer a hand? She closes her eyes for a moment. It cannot be true. The dead cannot be kind. They hunger only for the living. There is no kindness to be found here.

She opens her eyes again, finds the maidens still staring. There is a nervous jerk to her movements as she reaches for the dishes spread out before her. Fresh bread, meat, an assortment of fruits that she has never seen before. Her stomach twists painfully. A reminder that even though Delphine has brought her meals, she has only eaten little. She cannot defy her own body like this anymore. If she is weak, then she is even more of a target for those who only smell the blood flowing through her veins.

So she piles fruit and bread onto her plate, hopes it will not be seen as gluttony. The maidens seem to smile a little brighter now that she seems to eat. They still do not speak. It is stifling, the silence that wraps around them. It drags on and on, makes her heart flutter with something. That fear is still a part of her. She has yet to find an outlet for it, find something to focus on besides survival.

The mistress joins them later, just before Harlow finds her courage and voice. So she swallows her words, meets the eyes of the other woman only once and then ducks out of the room. The mistress does not follow.


	4. Clinging Guilt & Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Often, Harlow thinks of herself as an impostor. Her body does not feel like it belongs to her, like she merely experiences life through the eyes of a stranger whose life she stole long ago. Maybe the faeries stole the human long ago and she is the changeling, only now noticing that she does not belong. She does not know and that is what bothers her. How can she prove to herself that she is human, does she have to? Is being human all that there is to her, flesh pulled over weary bones? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because I quite forgot that I had this written out and ready
> 
> If you wish to screech at my, my Twitter is @NathalieWegner

Harlow stays in her room most of the time, staring at herself in the mirror. She has stopped looking like herself long ago. Her hair is short, barely peach fuzz. The redness of the mark still peeks around the side of her rib cage. She can never pinpoint the feeling as it takes hold of her, wraps around her heart with sharp claws and dull teeth that tear at her. She is lost in her own body, fear and cowardice in her veins. It keeps her awake some days, when the sun creeps through the mansion. She finds herself waking with silent screams, not the forest hunting her dreams, but the Eternal Light. It burns her flesh, devours her fully until there is nothing left but charred ashes. Her mother's twisted face always grins back at her, purple hyacinths growing from the burned flesh. 

It is a reminder of her guilt. She is not allowed to let go of it. Had she fought her father, had she fought the church, her mother and sisters might still be alive. It is truly a sign of the cowardice she has within herself, like her father. She hates to think of it. On such a night where her mind is far too loud to find peace, Harlow begins to venture through the mansion by herself. She finds the empty halls to be comforting, even more so when she finds the library during her walks. It is not the stories written within the books, but rather the words she can write onto the blanks pages she finds there that give her temporary peace. She steals them, along with the ink she needs to put her feelings to the paper. It feels like breathing for the first time, like waking up from a sleep that has never felt like just sleep.

Often, Harlow thinks of herself as an impostor. Her body does not feel like it belongs to her, like she merely experiences life through the eyes of a stranger whose life she stole long ago. Maybe the faeries stole the human long ago and she is the changeling, only now noticing that she does not belong. She does not know and that is what bothers her. How can she prove to herself that she is human, does she have to? Is being human all that there is to her, flesh pulled over weary bones? 

The words spill onto the pages. Her worries find an outlet. The answers still remain unseen. She cannot find a clue, no reason. Maybe it has been swallowed by the flames already, a victim of the Eternal Light before her body could even follow it to ruin. there is the possibility that her body is the ruin, devouring her soul, devouring her life before her very eyes. It is worrying, how far her mind spirals. It becomes easier to stand by the window, her gaze sweeping over the forest. She thinks about her death sometimes, feels a calm wash over her before it is followed by guilt and fear. Her mother has left this plane of existence for her, to protect her. Harlow should at least honor her very last wishes, she should at least try to aspire for greatness. Her body will stand tall, even before it hurtles towards the ground to end it all.

She never jumps. The forest offers to take her, maybe. She hears it in the whistling of the leaves, the way the branches seem to reach for her.

'Come home, my daughter.', it says, promising an end to something without a purpose.

Harlow always has to turn away from the window afterwards. She has to shake off the whispered promises, the cold that has settled just beneath her skin. It is that promise that forces her from her own quarters after weeks of self inflicted isolation. The maidens seem surprised to see her again, nevertheless their smiles remain warm, their voices soft as they greet her. She tries to smile back, but it turns into a painful grimace. She fears they will find the letters she keeps hidden in the pockets of her clothing. The fabric is loose enough around her body that the folded paper should not be visible. Still, the fear remains.

She is tired of that as well, of always being scared. She is no child, no maiden that needs saving. She still cannot shake it and it must show on her face. The other maidens ask her if she wishes to join them for tea or possibly for a walk around the premises. Often, she rejects their kind offers. The eyes of their partners tend to turn hungry sometimes. It feels like she is not welcome when their eyes turn dark, when their fangs peak our from beneath pale lips. Their maidens do not seem to notice and if they do, they must not care for it. Between sleeping and their nightly dinners, Harlow finds herself wandering alone. Even then those dark eyes never leave her. Especially when gets close to the borders of the forest. They must be afraid that she runs again. They must think she will lead others to their sinful sanctuary. The blank pages become her steady companion, documenting her possible descent into insanity. She tries to keep to her room as well, but the walls have begun to feel constricting now that she knows the song of the halls, of the mansion itself. The eyes still remain.

After weeks of her frustration and anxiety stacking on top of each other, she finds the courage to speak to Delphine. The woman is just as kind as she has been when Harlow first arrived. 

"Say, is there a certain purpose to the others watching me like prey?", she tries to keep her voice steady. Puffs out her chest to seem bigger, less self conscious than she is feeling in that very moment.

The blonde's smile is kind, her voice gentle when she replies. "They are worried that you might venture further away from the mansion without telling anyone. We do not wish for you to have endure the wrath of the humans again." Her voice turns bitter towards the end. Almost like she does not think of herself as human anymore.

"But they fear the forest. They would never dare enter." Harlow must sound like a child. 

Still, Delphine smiles fondly, albeit there being a hard edge to it that she cannot quite place. "They have tasted blood. No creature resists the hunt for too long. That is why it is important to let me or any other person know if you venture into the forest."

She nods quietly, hand pressed to the letters in her pockets. She will have to find another hiding place for them soon, or possibly find other ways to hide her words between pages.

"I will head into the forest then. Not far, but I need to breathe."

The blonde lets her and Harlow has to force herself not to run towards the the gates. Stepping over the border feels like stepping back into another home. She is quick to discard her shoes, to feel the earth and the soft moss beneath her feet. She breathes in deep, inhaling the scent of flowers and what is undeniably life itself.

She searches the nooks and crannies of the border, finds spots to hide. Harlow thinks she might just stay here forever, just outside where humans cannot reach and where the sun keeps the dead from her. She rereads the written letters to herself, to her mother, to her father. Most of it still rings true. Even out here she does not fully feel like herself. Harlow wishes she could ask someone for guidance, but she is no child anymore. The path should be clear to her like it has been for anyone else. It is that certain kind of pressure that settles on her shoulder, that forces her down to her knees.

The forest still whispers to her, lulls her to sleep when she nestles into the branches. It does not stop the dreams. Flowers still bury her when the fire does not devour her first. She wakes choking on nothing, tumbles from her perch into the dirt. Her arms are scraped. Pressure builds just behind her eyes. Harlow has not cried in a long time and she refuses to do so now. She has no right to, she still lives and breathes while her family has been swallowed alive.

She runs back to the mansion, shaking and terrified. She hides within her room, under the blankets like a girl afraid of the dark. She does not go to dinner that day. Delphine brings her a plate filled with fruit and meat. Harlow feels nauseous even when she merely looks at it, but her stomach churns with the need for food. She forces herself to eat, barely chews before she swallows. She knows everything will taste like ashes if she were to take her time to savor her meal. She must have been cursed she thinks. Old spirits do not want for her to find peace anywhere except with them. Harlow writes that down, too, in letters addressed to the lady death. 

The dinners that she does attend are awkward. She cannot look at anyone, still afraid that they know that her heart is that of just another runaway. She still speaks to them, her voice quiet and meek. Once a woman tries to convince to join her in her personal quarters. Her eyes are of a pale blue. They hold a certain promise, a suggestion that makes Harlow's throat lock up with...something. The other maidens draw closer, explain the situation and she does not expect apologies to spill from the other woman's lips. She seems almost sheepish now for having suggested anything at all.

Harlow risks a glance towards the throne and finds the mistress staring back at her, looking pleased with something before she sinks her teeth into the neck of an awaiting maiden. Her eyes meet Harlow's still and she finds herself shy, heat creeping along her neck. She still remembers the day those teeth had buried in her skin, how addictive that feeling had been. Had Harlow thrown all of her pride away that day, than she might would offered herself up just as easily, knowing that the mistress must think of her as something she claimed for herself only.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for her goblet of wine, her mouth dry. The alcohol merely manages to intensify the blush, coloring her cheeks an even lovelier shade of red. Though it also lowers her inhibitions, takes away the edge of her fear and anxiety. When she dares to meet the mistress’ eyes now, it is in challenge. She feels restless. There is something different. A small urge, dark and cold. Just how far could she push herself, feel her life drained without actually dying? Would that bring relief? Would it help her to stop feeling so wrong and twisted all the time?

Harlow sets her drink aside, determined and stubborn all of a sudden. Her movements are stiff, rigid as she rises from her seat. She crosses the room, her desires heavy on her heart. It will not quiet. It beats and beats away as she stands before the mistress. The woman releases her companion, eyes drawing upward until they meet hers. She can see the beginnings of glee in that silvery gaze.

“I want you.” The word tumble from her lips, nervous and uncontrolled. The resulting shame makes her stomach churn with uncertainty.

The mistress bends forward, hand reaching up to cradle Harlow’s cheek. Her pale eyes rake over her face, her body. She swallows nervously, heart thundering against its prison. The other woman lets go of her, disappointment and something else twisting at her features. Gone is that smug softness, replaced by something Harlow cannot even begin to name. The mistress rises from her throne, brushes past her without meeting her eyes again. She just leaves and Harlow remains. Embarrassment and anger bubble up in her throat, hot and uncomfortable. Who is this woman to deny her after she has claimed her? It does not make sense. The other maiden’s throw themselves at their mistress and she never hesitates. The silence that stretches out before her grows far too stiffing to endure.

Her feet carry her past the rows of curious onlookers, her room the only sanctuary she will have for now. It is then that she writes a letter to the mistress, angry slashes of ink conveying the emotions that will cling to her now. She is unwanted, useless. The mistress appears to be the rightful target for her anger. In her letter she calls her selfish, callous in her actions. She writes until the words begin to swim before her eyes, then stuffs the letter underneath the mattress, to the other unspoken words that will remain hidden there.

Coward, chants her mind as she tries to find rest. It is almost funny how even her own thoughts seem to not find her desirable. She smiles to herself, it borders on painful. If she does not smile now, she will cry. Crying for herself has always seemed pitiful to Harlow. She is alive. She should be grateful and strong and wanted.

“Your life is a flower, be careful not to let it wither.” She quietly chants it to herself, hopes to find some strength in the words. In the end they merely lull her to sleep, a sweet lie against the bleak colors of her life.

Harlow wakes the next day, exhausted. She feels empty, despite the feelings clawing at her. She tries to give them a form. Black eyes, sharp claws maybe. She wants to remain in bed, desperately tries to go back to sleep until the week has passed her by. Her body will not let her. It grows restless after the first hour, shivering and tense. It might be because the forest will not stop to whisper to her. Harlow should request another room, the cellar maybe. She does not want to face the false promises, she knows they will make her jump someday. She is always being pulled apart, to live or to die. She can never settle for something. All the choices seem dark and terrifying. She is aimless in her sorrow, in her desperation.

She slowly rises from her bed, unsure how to proceed with her day. She glances towards the window, watches the moonlight dancing over the tree tops. She might find answers there, her mother certainly did before…before the void decided to take her. Harlow does not bother to change out of her nightgown. Of course, Delphine has provided clothing for her, but the garments do not feel like her. They feel foreign, like a chain. If she wears their clothes, fully accepts it, then she will be one of them. She leaves her room on naked feet, the tiles cold against her skin. She meets numerous of the other inhabitants, informs all of them about her whereabouts. They still watch her with curious, sometimes even sad eyes.

Harlow disappears in the forest, between trees and leaves. She feels connected to the earth, the life here. Sometimes at least. Sometimes she lays among the moss, feels the forest against her skin. She could disappear like this, decay right here without regretting it. But then she thinks of her mother and sisters again. She is supposed to fight in their name, at least she has been made to believe so. She owes them as much. Though there is something in the back of her mind that tells her she does not owe them anything. It is a dark, petty thought. They have always been superior to her in their connection to the Old Ones. They have branded her as the weakest link. They should have fought for themselves, should not have placed the burden on her shoulders. The moment the thought takes form, she flinches, horrified at her own cruelty. Harlow should not dare to think about the deceased like that. They died, possibly to make her escape easier.

She closes her eyes, breathes deeply and lets time flow past her just like that. The forest does not speak to her, it greets her wit silence. She welcomes it, allows it to mellow her out until her soul can return the silence in kind.

“I truly do not think I am fit to be a witch. I do not feel you as strongly as the others have. Even when I do, all I am compelled to do is decay in your embrace. I do not think you want me to, at least I hope so.” She whispers the words to the rustling leaves. The forest does not answer, or if it does, she is deaf to its words.

Harlow sighs, pushes herself up on her elbows. The moon has begun its descent, the stars have begun to disappear. She has wasted her day just like this, trying and failing to get answers yet again. Warily she makes her way back to the mansion. If she is lucky she has not yet missed dinner.

The dinner hall is less occupied than usual, some of the maidens have already retreated to their rooms. The ones that have remained are seated by their partners, wrapped up in their own little world. As usual, the mistress is seated in her throne. Their eyes meet briefly, then the mistress rises and leaves the room in a hurry. She is being avoided, possibly, maybe, most likely. Harlow does not think it fair.

She still does not think it fair when it happens the next day and the day after that. It repeats for weeks, like they are caught in a loop. Harlow reaches her breaking point soon enough. There are enough questions left unanswered. This does not have to be part of them. When the mistress leaves yet again, she follows, warm fingers wrapping around a cool slender wrist before the other woman can disappear in her own quarters once more.

The mistress stops, stares at forward, jaw tense. She does not move away just yet and Harlow sees it as an opening.

“You have been avoiding me, why?” For once her own voice does not tremble. It must be sudden spike in stubbornness, Harlow needs to at least have this, enough power to receive answers. Yet, the mistress does not turn towards her.

“I apologize if my rejection has offended, but I am unwilling to build bridges between you and the lady death. You should begin to be more aware of how easily the life in your veins can be spilled.”, her voice is rough, trembling at the edges.

“I was not—”, Harlow falters as the woman wrenches out of her grasp.

The silver of the mistress’ eyes has turned into molten steel, her anger revealed for all to see.

“Do you think I do not know what a woman desperately seeking death looks like? Do you take me for a fool?”

Harlow cannot quite meet her eyes, searches for words to say. She finds there are none. There are excuses and lies, but she does not think it wise to lie to the mistress.

“I was patient with you. I gave you space, a safe haven away from others and yet the first thing you ask of me is to deliver you to the brink of death.”, she grows more frustrated with each word, voice rising until she catches herself.

The mistress has a mind to look sheepish upon seeing her flinch at the truth so brutally placed before her.

When Harlow speaks up, her voice wavers, her resolve shaken. “I seek balance.”

It is not fully the truth just yet. She hopes it will be someday, but being almost dead is better than being alive or within the void next to her family. For a moment she thinks her answer has been enough to sway the mistress. Silver eyes rake over her body, fingers gently trace the old mark on her neck.

“I am afraid I am unable to help with that.”

She is soft, Harlow realizes. The woman before her has shifted from anger to something akin to understanding. It must be difficult to be the embodiment of death and face all that lives. She asks herself if the mistress secretly wishes for a life deemed to wither at some point. Immortality is uncertain. The prospect of it certainly frightens her.

“Rest well, Harlow.”, cool lips press against her forehead, the gesture gentle, reassuring.

After, the other woman turns away, disappearing within the winding halls of the mansion. She herself is left behind. She does not know how to feel when faced with such softness. The world around her has always been harsh, unforgiving. Harlow blinks, shakes off this strange emotion that begins to settle over her. It is best if she were to return to her own quarters for the day.


	5. The Right Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is tired most of these days now, her body wary, her thoughts heavy atop her chest. Like this, the mistress does not dare speak to her, like Harlow would need any more of it. She might not feel like herself, but the distance still tugs at the parts of her that have remained. The clear rejection stings, even though it has happened with good intentions. It is one of the things she will not accept.

The mistress has distanced herself, though sometimes she lurks within Harlow’s dreams. Right before she tumbles down the edge, she will see her face, the worry in silver eyes haunting her. Often, she will crack her head open right down the middle. Her blood is never spilled. Instead a swirl of snapdragons, white poppies and york roses spill forth. She feels them growing, steadily, just before she hits the ground. Other times she does not hurt herself at all. It is when the fire gets to her first. The fire devours her whole every time and she wakes bathed in sweat, nauseous and fearful of the shadows in her room. She never cries when it happens, never allows herself the small reprieve. When the dreams wake her, she wanders the mansion or the forest on naked feet, trying to center herself once more. It calms her, but sometimes she wishes she had been born without her heart. It beats in her chest, fluttery like a bird in its cage. Harlow can feel her finger itch with the need to dig into her own chest and pull it out. It is the only thing that possibly belongs to her and she does not even want it.

She is tired most of these days now, her body wary, her thoughts heavy atop her chest. Like this, the mistress does not dare speak to her, like Harlow would need any more of it. She might not feel like herself, but the distance still tugs at the parts of her that have remained. The clear rejection stings, even though it has happened with good intentions. It is one of the things she will not accept.

She begins to seek out weakness within the mistress, counts the days the woman does not show herself for the joined dinner. She takes note how the hunger colors her eyes a dark grey whenever she does. It is entertaining to figure out how long she would have to wait to place her request once more. It is a dark, ugly thought that wraps around her mind, slithers into her soul and takes hold of it. It makes her ache and shiver as she waits and waits for the mistress’ eyes to turn so dark once more. Harlow feels Delphine watching her as she does, eyes prying her apart. She never turns around, never meets the blonde’s eyes. If she did, she might be met with the disgust her actions must call forth within others. She thinks it truly must be disgusting how she winds her very being around this, clings to it like it has more answers than the promise of misery.

Still, she exposes her neck more often than not if she happens to be close to the mistress. Harlow delights in the way those eyes seem to rake over the exposed skin. Sometimes she sees the other woman slip, a dry swallow here, a lingering gaze there. She is close, possibly, to snapping and just taking Harlow. Not that she would object. It makes her feel wanted, makes her feel needed for something, even though it is for all the wrong reasons. That knowledge lingers, holds on. It is poison in her blood, the possibility of whatever this might be. She is just as wanting and desperate as the mistress.

Delphine still watches her, something swims in her gaze, somewhat dark and pitying. Her eyes never stop following Harlow, they watch her in the mansion, when she returns from the forest. Harlow tries to avoid her now. She ducks around corners, spends more time within the forest each day. She fears the words the blonde might have for her. There cannot be any kindness within them, not like the forest. It is cruel, but it wants her to stay. With each day that she stays longer, the whispers grow. The chorus is loud enough to drown out herself now. She will wake within the forest sometimes, without memory of having stopped to rest. Roots are outstretched towards her, like hands grasping and reaching for her. They intend to drag her down, maybe, or simply keep her here forever. Where the humans cannot reach her, and the dead would not know how to seek her out. It is tempting, always so tempting. She almost accepts, almost stays until her very bones decay. Delphine finds her like that, eyes unfocused, limbs heavy as the roots curl around them. She drags Harlow away; desperate and almost fearful it seems.

She barely feels it, the hands gripping her. Not when her lungs feel like they are filled with moss. The forest whispers and whispers. Harlow is delirious with all the promises. She feels herself being pushed into a seat, feel something warm wrap around her shoulders. The daze will not leave her, still. She has almost been part of the forest, almost left behind the hurt. The prospect of it is sickeningly enticing. Her dazed eyes wander, focus on blonde hair and kind eyes. A cup with steaming liquid is pressed into her hands. Harlow breathes in the fragrance of herbs and dried fruit. It should be calming, but she will not stop shaking, separated from the forest like this. Its roots have dug deep, have clawed their way into her existence. To let her go now, it surely must have torn pieces of herself away.

“The forest has no answers for you.” The words pull her back, force her to focus.

Harlow nods numbly. The forest has more answers than this dead mansion. Even if it makes her senses die, she cannot find it in herself to see a fault in that. She does not know where else to find them anyways. There is no one left she could ask, and the Old Ones have never answered her clearly. This lack of knowledge claws at her, tears at her carefully stitched sanity. It is an itch she cannot scratch, if she did her hands would come back bloody, broken maybe. She files it away to the possibility of this body not being her own, of being made of wood and flower buds to replace a human stolen away by the fae. How does one feel human in the first place? Is it marked by the certainty of one’s own thoughts or does something entirely different play into it? Harlow is certain of the skin stretched over bones, of the blood faintly pulsing through the veins. It feels present, but overbearing all the same.

A hand gently squeezes her shoulder, anchors her back to the present. Delphine is still here, she realizes with mild surprise. The woman looks older somehow, worry painted across her face. It looks so undeniably human. Harlow feels something else stir at that, something small. Still, it has claws and teeth all the same. She is jealous of this woman, of the emotions she expresses so freely, without the thought of the vulnerability terrifying her to no end. Harlow’s hands twitch with the need to claw at the blonde’s face, to make the worry disappear forever. She frowns at the nature of it, clutches the cup tighter in her hands. She refuses to succumb to this at least. Will not allow her thoughts to turn her into less of a human than she already is. If Delphine notices it, she does not comment. They drink their tea in silence. Harlow lacks the words to answer to anything the other woman could say and the blonde must suspect that at least.

Her cup is empty, only the bitter residue left. She does not know how long they have been sitting here, has lost the feeling for time in the forest perhaps. She sets the cup aside, moves to stand and finally leave this behind her. The woolen blanket around her begins to slip, the cold creeping back into her. Delphine stops her. The movement is sudden, hurried, but the hand pressing down on her shoulder is nothing but soft. It still makes her throat close up and her body go rigid.

“You think too loud. You are working against yourself.”

Again, she only manages to nod numbly. The prospect of having to talk about this terrifies her. Putting her emotions, her failures and errors into words. It is enough that she reminds herself of it, she does not need to recount them to a stranger.

“I can help, if you wish. You will not have to speak of it, or any of it. It will just be you and something else besides the forest for once.” The offer is kind, lacking malice or the ridicule it should consist of. Again she only nods, her tongue heavy.

Delphine lets her go then, after they have agreed on meeting in the kitchens after the shared breakfast. She lies awake that night, her gaze unseeing. Harlow does not know what to expect of the coming days, how they will turn out for her. Being so closely watched by Delphine for a longer period of time, it terrifies her. There are cracks in her being that can be seen, that can be used to pull her apart piece by piece. It scares her. She finds herself not wanting to go, but that old feeling stirs again, burning and vile. She should learn from someone who wears the vulnerability of being human so well.

Sleep finds her eventually, grasping at her consciousness until it slips away. She might have left the forest, but it does not leave her. The roots still linger in her dreams, moving beneath skin and sinew. They pull tight around her body, choke the air out of her lungs. All that she heaves up is bloodied petals of yellow hyacinths. She still prefers it over the fire, over the feeling of burning and yet not dying soon enough for it to be over. Yet, she still wakes in cold sweat, breath heavy and ragged. The back of her throat itches and she almost darts for the washing basin at the opposite of the room. There are no flowers there, no petals choking her. It is a dream that coils so tightly around that she cannot escape it in the very first minutes that she wakes. She is haunted by her own ghost. How does one escape that?

Harlow takes a deep breath, holds it for a few moments until her lungs ache, then releases it. She thinks she might never get better, that trying is hopeless in the face of such a feat. She would rather her the villagers and their hounds once more, than stare at herself for too long only to find an abyss staring back at her. Still, a small sort of determination tugs at her limbs, makes her stand and get dressed. It does not wither, not yet. She does not expect it to exist for too long.

Her feet carry her towards the dining hall. She falters a few times, unsure if she should still accept Delphine’s offer. It almost seems like too much to ask of her now, to fix Harlow because she cannot do so herself. Another part of her, the one with its claws deep in her bones, utters that it is pathetic. That her kind has gone through worse and still made it. It is an ugly thought, yet she cannot shake it. Harlow is trembling by the time she reaches the dining hall. Her stomach turns at most of the scents assaulting her senses. It feels a little like standing on a cliff, knowing she will fall any moment. She eats what she can, the textures and taste wrong, alien against her tongue. Harlow manages, though her trembling does not cease. The prospect of having someone look at her like Delphine does. It is terrifying if she is being honest with herself, to be stripped from your outer layers to have your feelings laid bare. She does not know what she fears more, the answer to everything that seems so wrong, or the echo of it all. She drags out breakfast for as long as she can manage, though there is no denying that she is stalling when most of the maidens have already left to go about their daily duties.

Harlow forces herself to swallow the last bite, suppressing the urge to gag at how unnatural it feels. She has spent so much time with the forest now, she might be truly more nature than human. She feels her body move, like snapping vines. It is unwilling, as is her mind, to leave the safety of her own perception. If the forest proves to be no part of her, what is left of her that makes Harlow Lauder?

She still forces her limbs into motion, forces her feet to carry towards the kitchen where Delphine will be no doubt waiting for her. She thinks of the questions that might be asked, dreads the answers she will see herself forced to give. She lives on the hospitality of these people after all. her habits must have been wearing everyone else’s patience thin. Yet, when she arrives, the other woman only levels her with a look before that gaze turns softer, like she is seeing something Harlow herself cannot grasp. There are no questions, no forced conversations. Delphine speaks and Harlow will answer if it does not feel like a betrayal to herself to do so. All the while, the two of them prepare dinner for a later time that day. They repeat this process every so often and Delphine will mention that self-reflection will often bear more answers than the forest. Harlow still has trouble believing it, cannot think of a time where she herself had answers to anything aside her own failure and lack of ability. Though one thing stays true, the more time she spends at the mansion, the less the forest will dare speak to her. Delphine does not monitor her comings and goings, does not force her to speak about the things she dare not name like that blonde had promised in the very beginning, but she will remind Harlow to never stay amongst the trees too long, to always keep moving.

It does help. The vines and roots still seem to reach for her, branches catching at clothing, but the whispers are not as overwhelming as they used to be. They appear gentler, now that they are not the only thing on her mind. Unfortunately, the dreams remain and every so often she will wake with the taste of dirt on her tongue. She dreads sleeping, though even refusing to go to allow her body to rest can only help so long. She finds that the dreams brought by the sleep deprivation hold more horrors. They feel more tangible, they do not shock her into a waking state the moment she has died within them.

If others take note of the dark bruises beneath her eyes, they choose not to comment, but all of them seem to have grown more protective of her over time. It might stem from the fact that she is smaller than most of them, or possibly from something else, but Harlow does not dare ask. She fears it might break whatever her presence within the mansion is now. Their protectiveness is difficult to accept, how they hover around her when they think she will not notice. She never tells them, writes her letters instead and reflects on the days the dreams and the forest do not cloud her mind too much.

The mistress refuses to speak with her still. She has even gone so far as to never dine at the same times Harlow does now. It is stifling, shameful as she regards her own behavior. She wishes to discard it just like that, to have nothing stop her from being fully human, but she has only now started to realize that not feeling like herself might be a problem, that something partial is missing. Harlow waits for her within the dining hall the first few weeks, although the woman never shows. It is to be expected, though there is a small inkling of guilt tugging at her insides. She has forced the mistress to adjust her daily routines, has forced the woman to reconsider an arrangement that had never been spoken about. She thinks it unfair to stand before her very room now, but the desire to apologize overpowers the urge to hide in shame. Surprisingly, the mistress opens the door for her before she even thinks to knock, like she has been waiting for something to shift between them as well.

They both must be tired, she thinks. Harlow has lost the will to be torn between two extremes, at least when it comes to the mistress. She does not think herself able to let go of it just now, maybe after she has learned how she will, maybe Delphine and the mistress will be able to help her with it. Harlow deserves to be hopeful with this at least.

The woman steps away from the door, motions for her to step inside. It as much of an invitation she will get. Harlow steps insides, notes that the room does not look any different from the first time she has seen it. For as much time the mistress seems to spend here, she never appears to think of organizing the scripts and books carelessly littering everything.

“Delphine has told me about the recent developments. She worries.”, that voice is oh so soft, like it might break her if it were to rise.

Harlow wholeheartedly believes the mistress could break her like that, feels herself staring at her feet in shame at the fact that Delphine had to tell the woman in the first place. The mistress steps closer, threads their fingers together. The contrast between warm and cold makes both of them draw a deep breath. She would not care for dying right now if the mistress never stopped touching her in any way. It feels real, secure. She finds that it quiets some of her doubts, makes her believe that if she feels this, her body might just be her own. Their connection is short lived still and the other woman draws away before Harlow can think to speak.

“Finding balance must be difficult, especially so far away from all that you have known and yet expected to understand so suddenly. With all that has been happening, Delphine suspects you to be more half dead, like something has its claws in you.”

Harlow agrees with that, though the words still somewhat sting. She would not call herself half dead. The forest is rotting her from the inside out perhaps, it might count as dead or alive, whichever way somebody would prefer to see it, there is no in between, no halfway mark.

“She also believes my recent behavior to be cowardly. There is responsibility to having claimed someone, though it is shameful that I have done so without consent and I must apologize for that. I do however hope that we will find a more appropriate way of handling other developments that may arise within later points of your stay here.”, the mistress sounds less sure than she did that very first night.

Harlow has to hide a small grin at that. It is a somewhat welcome change to see the mistress like this, despite it being from something so worrying as her own state of mind.

“I think that is not too far beyond our own capabilities.”, her own voice gives a small tremor. She is still unsure but squashes the inkling of doubt that arises with it.

The mistress smiles at that. It is small but sets her eyes ablaze in a way that almost robs her of breath. Yes, there is indeed beauty in death, but Harlow might not have to waste away in order to witness it. Their fingers brush once again. The touch chases shivers up and down her spine. Had her beginnings always been so soft, then maybe life would not have spit her out all twisted and wrong, but her mistress might be able to right past wrongs or at least help to see them more as something that does not have to overshadow everything that Harlow will come to be.

She thinks she can live with that.


End file.
